


let me down slowly

by demigoddesses



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigoddesses/pseuds/demigoddesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Guinevere is a proper lady. Proper ladies don’t flirt with strange women who enter their bedrooms." The untold story of King Arturia Pendragon and her queen, Guinevere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me down slowly

It’s just one of those nights where Guinevere can’t sleep, but for the life of her, she can’t figure out why. She’d spent a long day entertaining visitors from the neighboring state, which usually has her exhausted within an hour. She’d even taken a long gallop around the castle grounds on her mare Olive earlier in the afternoon. By all accounts, she should be so tired that she couldn’t get enough sleep. And yet, she feels wide awake, her nerves tingling, her mind racing, her blood pounding in her ears—as if it was trying to tell her that she was on the brink of something big. 

A strange and silly notion. Guinevere doesn’t believe in fate or nonsense like that. All she needs, she decides, is a good drink of wine. Wine always makes her sleepy.

/

When she was a little girl, her mother used to play a lullaby for her on the harp. Sometimes, she would even sing, but not often. Her mother hated the sound of her own singing voice, although Guinevere thought it was lovely. It’s one of the few memories she has of her mother, who died when she was four.  
Tonight, she plays a lullaby for herself, an empty glass of wine at feet, hoping that the tune will soothe her into sleepiness. Her fingers move expertly on their own, having played this song dozens of times. She closes her eyes, but they flutter open a heartbeat later when she hears a soft and unfamiliar voice, singing along. Her fingers freeze, and she looks up. 

Standing in front of her is the most beautiful woman she’s seen in her entire life.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger in Guinevere’s bedroom says, flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared.” Somewhere, a sensible voice in the back of her mind whispers a strange woman is standing in your bedroom, you should be scared, but the rest of her feels entranced. She knows it isn’t polite to stare, but she can’t stop looking at the stranger. And it’s not just because she has hair like gold and the greenest eyes Guinevere’s ever seen. Even dressed in a simple white nightgown, she stands with a grace and maturity that can’t help but to turn heads. Her features are delicate but not fragile, with a surety that Guinevere didn’t know was possible. Everything about her is intimidating and inviting all at once.

“Your music is beautiful,” she says.

You should be scared, Guinevere’s mind whispers. “Thank you,” her mouth says. “If you’d like, you can come closer so you can listen better.” She gestures at the second stool by her harp stand. When she was younger, she used to sit there and listen to her mother play. She returns to her harp, pretending to focus on the melody that streams off of her fingers, but really, she’s admiring her—the fluidity of her movements, the way she transforms something as simple as walking and sitting down into something worth watching.

Something about her is different and exquisite and impossible to turn away from, and she can’t help but to draw closer.

“So what brings you here?” she asks, glancing to her side and making eye contact for a brief moment before turning back to her harp. 

“I’m staying here for the night. This castle was on my way home,” the woman explains. “Are you the lady of this castle?”

She nods. “Indeed, I am.” Staying for the night—well that’s a fairly believable explanation. Due to the castle’s position in the middle of a rather large forest, her father frequently has to entertain night guests. Although this usually doesn’t happen. Guinevere is a proper lady. Proper ladies don’t flirt with strange women who enter their bedrooms.

Get a grip, her mind says. It’s not as if Guinevere’s never run into a beautiful woman before; hell, this isn’t even the first time she’s been attracted to one. “What’s your name?” her mouth asks.

“Arturia,” the woman replies. “Yours?”

“Guinevere,” she says. Arturia, she thinks, running the name over in her mind. She can’t help but to think that this name means something. But that’s ridiculous. She’s never met this woman before in her life. Guinevere doesn’t believe in fate or nonsense like that. And yet—tonight, she feels like she’s on the brink of something massive, and her life will never be the same again if she takes the plunge.

“Do you usually play the harp this late?” Arturia asks her, taking her out of her thoughts.

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t sleep tonight, so I sought to play the harp.” She hesitates, wondering if she really should continue down this path, if she really should take more steps towards the brink of that something massive. But her mouth asks of its own accord, “Would you like me to teach you how to play?”

“I don’t really think I’d take to it—“ Arturia tries to protest, but Guinevere places her hand above hers. Arturia’s cheeks flush. 

“Here, like this,” Guinevere says softly, placing their hands above the harp. She keeps her touch light and minimal, afraid to get to close. They strum together, and a tentative glissando rises out of the harp. “There you go.” She removes her hand off of Arturia’s, and she immediately misses the warmth. 

“Could you demonstrate that again?” she asks.

“Of course.” She takes Arturia’s hand again, and this time she can’t help but to press a bit closer, to take in the feeling of Arturia’s hand in hers. They’re rough and delicate all at once. “Your hands are quite peculiar for a lady.”

Arturia flushes and pulls her hand away. Guinevere takes Arturia’s hand back and observes them, concerned this time. Her hands are tough and calloused, mapped with burns and scars.

“I’m not quite a lady. I’m a knight,” Arturia says nervously. But even when nervous, her body conveys a sense of confidence; how does she do it? She bites her lip, and Guinevere has the strangest urge to lean forward and—well, she can’t think like that. Guinevere is a lady—she’s a lady with responsibilities and expectations.

So she leans back a bit and withdraws her hand, and Guinevere’s all ready to wrap up the conversation and say that she’s feeling a little tired and perhaps they should go to sleep—separately, of course, but Arturia surprises her by taking her hand. 

She thinks she could get lost in those green eyes. “You are quite remarkable.” 

“You are… quite remarkable yourself.” 

Guinevere takes the plunge, and she kisses her. 

/

When Guinevere wakes up, she’s alone in her bed, and for a moment she wonders if the events of the past night were a dream. Because things like that aren’t supposed to happen. Because beautiful and mysterious lady knights aren’t supposed to appear in her bedroom. Because Guinevere definitely isn’t supposed to sleep with aforementioned beautiful lady knights.

And yet, there’s no way she could have imagined that – there’s no way she could have imagined her. Arturia surpasses even her wildest dreams. 

“Shit.”

It’s not ladylike to swear, a voice in her mind berates. Yeah well, she argues with herself, it’s also not ladylike to have sex with beautiful and mysterious lady knights. But the problem isn’t that she slept with Arturia. Guinevere doesn’t believe in the antiquated notion that sex is only between a man and a woman, but the rest of the world seems to, so she’s technically not spoiled for marriage. Her maidenhood is good and intact. No, the problem isn’t that she had sex; it’s that she can’t get Arturia out of her head. She can’t stop thinking about Arturia’s kisses and her hands, the way she was confident but so careful, her grace, her eyes, the way they stayed up all night talking afterwards. 

How could she ever marry a man when all she can think about is the beautiful and mysterious lady knight?

The beautiful and mysterious lady knight who had left her cold and alone in bed.

She’s snapped out of her reverie by the sound of a door swinging open. For a second, she thinks it might be Arturia, but then she realizes that it’s just her maidservant, Annabelle.

“Your father wants to talk to you downstairs in the dining hall,” the servant tells her. 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Just let me get dressed.” 

The servant leaves, closing the door behind her. Guinevere heads over to the bathroom that’s connected to her bedroom and splashes some water on her face. She’s going to be presentable, she’s going to be composed, she’s going to be a lady.

By the time she glides into the dining room, wearing her favorite red dress and holding her head up high, she’s put the events of the past night behind her. Well, mostly. Okay, not at all, but she knows she’ll make it through breakfast with her father with no incident. 

But her father isn’t alone this morning. He’s talking to a strange man dressed in armor whose back is turned to Guinevere. Her father, however, is directly facing her and notices her immediately.

“Guinevere!” he says, his face widening into a grin. “I have spectacular news. You are to be married!”

For a moment, she panics, but she quickly smooths over her facial expression to one of mild surprise. Sure, she’s screaming on the inside, but her father and the stranger who Guinevere presumes is her future husband will never know. “Married? You mean, I’ve received another offer? But Father, I’ve received marriage offers before. You always told me to wait and consider before I accept.” Her father’s been pushing for her to get married for years now; it’s unusual for a twenty-one-year old girl to still remain a maiden. He’d been getting considerably more aggressive and impatient as of late, but he’d always told her that marriage was ultimately her choice. 

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll turn this one down.” He’s practically glowing. “Because this one is from King Arthur Pendragon.”

And then the stranger turns around, and she may be dressed in a man’s armor, and her long golden hair may be hidden by a helmet, but Guinevere knows those eyes. Arturia. Arthur. As in, King Arthur Pendragon. 

Fu—fudge.

“Could you—could you give us some alone time, Father?” Guinevere requests, keeping her tone completely even and cool. When her father hesitates, she adds, “Oh, come now, we are to be married. Don’t you trust me?”

“Oh, alright, I’ll let you have some time alone,” he says. “Just a minute, though!” He shuffles out of the dining hall, beckoning the servants to exit behind him. 

“Why?” Guinevere asks, as soon as the door shuts.

“Why, what?” Arturia asks, looking rather taken aback. 

Why didn’t you tell me you were the king? Why did you lie to me? Why did you leave me this morning? Why are you marrying me now? “Just, why?” she asks, shooting Arturia a glare.

“I’m sorry. Last night was a mistake. I dishonored you, and I mislead you about my identity, and I truly regret it. But this is how I’m trying to make things right. Marrying you would be the proper thing to do. I’m sorry if you don’t wish to marry me. I could talk to your father again if you’d want me to,” Arturia says.

A mistake. I truly regret it. The proper thing to do. Arturia’s marrying her because of her stupid knightly honor code. Guinevere wants to tear her hair out because no, no, this is not the answer that she wanted to hear, but instead she maintains her cool, collected tone and says, “That won’t be necessary. I understand now.” And maybe she’s being a little petty, but she adds with a saccharine smile, “What kind of girl would turn down being queen?”

/

Everything happens so quickly. The next thing she knows, she’s packing up and moving out, and she’s being introduced to all of Arturia’s fellow knights, and she’s giving her thoughts on wedding decor and invites and dresses. She’s so busy adapting to her new life as the future queen of Camelot that she barely gets to see Arturia at all. She doesn’t mind. But she does mind. But she doesn’t. 

Arturia makes everything complicated. 

The few times they do see each other, like at mealtimes, they’re never alone. They’re always surrounded by knights and servants and nobles. Something about propriety. Ha. What a joke. She throws herself into learning how to be a good queen—memorizing the names of all of Arturia’s fellow knights, keeping up with kingdom politics, being kind to the commoners, all while guiding the wedding preparations. Arturia’s head servant, Katherine, had offered to plan the entire wedding, but Guinevere doesn’t want to be one of those hands-off queens who forces other people to do all her work for her. It’s her wedding, after all, and she does want to have some control over it, even if she grew up knowing that she wouldn’t be able to control who she married. It’s all very exhausting, and thankfully, it’s enough to prevent her from staying up all night thinking about Arturia.

The wedding is a long and grand affair, full of pomp and nobles, but it also features a huge feast table open to any commoners who wish to celebrate. She wakes up early to style her hair and face, walks down the aisle in her pale blue wedding dress, stands as gracefully as possible while waiting for the priest to complete his ridiculously long speech, tries not to get too distracted by how good Arturia looks in her suit, hugs her crying father, makes small talk with nobles, tries not to get too distracted by how good Arturia looks as they dance—it’s all a huge blur, honestly. 

The sun’s just about to set, and Guinevere’s debating whether or not she should take another glass of wine, and for just a moment, she’s left alone with Arturia at their table.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been very present,” Arturia says to Guinevere’s surprise, breaking their awkward silence. 

“It’s okay. I don’t expect you to. You’re busy, I’m busy, and it wouldn’t have been proper before,” she replies, proud of how nonchalant her tone is. 

“Still, I, ah, we are to be married. Well, we are married now.” Arturia turns away and picks at the meat left on her dish.

Something about seeing Arturia—composed, stately Arturia—act so awkward makes Guinevere’s heart skip a beat. Her awkwardness is strangely endearing. Which is ridiculous because Guinevere had thought she was completely over Arturia at this point. She reminds herself that Arturia lied to her that first night and that Arturia’s only marrying her out of propriety.

“I just want to let you know that I’m going to try harder now. I feel like we, or perhaps just I, didn’t quite begin correctly,” Arturia continues, looking up from her plate and straightening her back, although Guinevere can tell that she’s still a little nervous. “I should have been there for you, helped you adapt into your new role. Not that you haven’t done a great job on your own. This wedding is lovely, and both my court and the commoners adore you.”

“Well, ah, thank you,” Guinevere says, blushing and avoiding Arturia’s eyes. She’s the awkward one now. She thinks about how natural it was the first time they met, how they just seemed to fall into each other, and she wishes it didn’t need to be this way. And then she hates herself for wishing that. She wishes she could just be angry with Arturia because the sad truth is that she’s still a little bit hurt by the entire situation. But it wouldn’t really be logical to be angry with Arturia either, when she’s so genuinely sorry. She just needs to get over it. 

“You’re welcome,” Arturia says.

Fortunately (unfortunately?) then, the conversation ends because one of Arturia’s knights, Gawain, drags Arturia onto the dance floor. Guinevere sighs and takes another glass of wine. It is her wedding, after all. She can treat herself. 

/

Arturia’s sentiment seems to be genuine because she invites Guinevere to go riding with her the next day. She heads to the stables ten minutes earlier than Arturia had specified via her messenger boy, planning to spend extra time with her gray mare Olive to calm her nerves, and is surprised to find Arturia already present, with Olive saddled beside her.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” Arturia remarks. “Well, shall we proceed?” She steps forward, and Guinevere recognizes the gentlemanly, I’m going to offer help gleam in Arturia’s eyes. 

“Where are we going?” Guinevere asks, mounting her mare before Arturia can offer help.

She does look a bit surprised, but without skipping a beat, Arturia mounts her own horse—a massive white stallion—and takes the lead, beckoning Guinevere to follow. “You’ve ridden around the castle before, yes?” 

“Yes, yes I have,” she replies. Whenever she had free time in those hectic weeks leading up the wedding, she would go for a quick ride. 

“Well then, I think it’d be good for us to get a bit further from it. There’s a hill not too far from here that I think you’d enjoy.” She turns around and smiles, and Guinevere can’t help but to smile back.

/

They don’t speak too much as they ride beside each other, but Guinevere doesn’t mind. It’s a lovely spring day with clear skies and crisp air. She takes the time to enjoy the serenity of the ride. It’s not that she dislikes being inside the castle, but constantly being surrounded by people is exhausting. It’s nice to be alone. Well, she’s not exactly alone. She peeks ahead at Arturia, who somehow even looks more perfect and gallant as usual. Perhaps it’s because she’s on a horse. 

Guinevere inwardly sighs. After yesterday’s conversation, she’d decided to attempt being friends with Arturia. Sure, Guinevere’s massively attracted to her, but they can be friends! It’s not the first time she’s done that before. She remembers Helene, her childhood best friend. When she thinks about Helene—beautiful, young Helene with her copper curls and dimpled smile—who got married off to some fifty-year-old noble across the land when she was sixteen, Guinevere remembers that she’s lucky. Extremely lucky. So unrequited pining aside, she should stop whining and appreciate her life. 

The hill Arturia brings her is beautiful. She slides off of Olive, makes sure to secure her by a tree, and takes a moment to just admire the view of the castle below. She remembers the very first time she saw it, tall and imposing with its cold stone walls. From here, it’s not so tall and imposing anymore. 

She turns around and is surprised for the second time that day when she sees Arturia sitting down on a large blanket, a far-off look in her eyes as she too admires the view, her golden hair streaming behind her in the wind. She’s so caught up by how beautiful Arturia looks that she almost misses the food basket, and well—

Arturia’s making this unrequited pining thing really hard.

“You prepared a meal,” Guinevere says, sitting down on the blanket at a respectable distance from Arturia.

“I did,” she says, turning away from the view and giving Guinevere another smile. She rummages through the basket and takes out a pastry shaped like a four-leafed clover.

“How did you know these were my favorite?” Guinevere asks. Their fingers brush against each other as she accepts the bread. 

“I asked the cook, of course,” says Arturia, while setting up some tea, and she’s making this unrequited pining thing really, really hard. 

“You’re too sweet,” Guinevere mumbles, turning away so Arturia won’t see her blush.

“Well, we are married, after all.” Arturia offers her a cup of tea. It’s such a simple action, but it makes her entire stomach burst into butterflies. 

Say something, Guinevere’s mind urges after a long period of silence. She racks her brain for clever conversation topics as she finishes up her food. “You’re a great rider,” Guinevere blurts out, and she tries not to look too mortified. That’s what you decided to say?

“Thanks. You’re not half-bad yourself,” Arturia responds. She sets down her cup of tea and asks, “Do you want to race down this hill?”

No. “Yes.” Do you know how terrible of a decision that was? She’s just agreed to race down a hill against King Arthur. But she can’t back out now. She just has to hold her head up high, like a lady, and live with her decision. “Just don’t go easy on me, okay?”

“Okay.” Arturia stands up, brushing off her breeches and heading towards her horse. But Guinevere recognizes the look in her eye, it’s her I’m going to be a gentleman look, so she stands up and straightens her poise.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Don’t just let me win. Treat me like an equal competitor.”

“Okay then, my lady,” Arturia says. Her expression changes into something more serious, and Guinevere almost regrets her words because she recognizes that look too. It’s the prepare for your destruction look. It’s a little scary. And also incredibly hot.

After cleaning up, they position themselves and their horses at the top of the hill. “Okay,” says Guinevere. “Now, on the count of three. One, two, three!”

They’re off, Olive sure and steady beneath her. Olive is no longer in her prime, but they’ve had such a long and consistent relationship. She remembers feeding the foal for the first time when she was five, she remembers telling Olive about her first questioning crushes on girls when she was twelve, she remembers walking around the castle with Olive when she first arrived until she felt better. She knows Olive—good, familiar Olive—won’t let her down.

They’re flying down the hill, and they’re in the lead, and then a flash of something bright passes by her. She urges Olive to go faster, to try a little harder, and she hasn’t felt this alive since the night she first met Arturia. The wind on her face, the dust swirling behind her, the adrenaline pumping through her veins and her blood roaring in her ears. She feels lighter, freer, and just a little bit reckless.

Arturia wins, of course. “Show off,” she grumbles rather loudly when she reaches the bottom of the hill, making a face. 

“You did tell me not to hold back,” Arturia points out, an annoyingly cute grin on her face.

“I’m not calling you a show off because you won!” Guinevere says indignantly. “I’m calling you a show off because you’re practically laughing!”

“I am not laughing!” Arturia says defensively, as her grin gets wider. Guinevere glares at her until Arturia does burst into unrestrained laughter. 

“See! See!” she says, almost hysterically. “You are laughing!” And then she can’t hold it back anymore, and she laughs along too. She laughs so hard that her cheeks hurt and her stomach feels sore, and then she sees Arturia trying so hard not to laugh, and she laughs harder. 

When they’ve regained their composure and allowed their horses to cool down and rest, Arturia suggests that they begin heading back. This time, they converse on the road. They ride side by side, close enough that if she wanted to, she could reach over and take Arturia’s hand. She doesn’t dare, of course. They just talk. They talk about everything from horses (Arturia’s horse is named Hen, which Guinevere finds hilarious because she’s King Arthur, and her sword is named Excalibur, but her horse’s name is Hen?) to wedding gifts (Arturia very much loves the round table that Guinevere’s father gifted her) to Guinevere’s insecurities as a new queen.

“I’m grateful for my position as your queen, of course. I want to use my position to actually influence the kingdom and do some good for it, but I’m worried about messing up, but I also definitely don’t want to be those queens who are only queen in name. I’ve never had this many people looking at me before. It’s so much pressure. I’m rambling, I know. Sorry to dump this all on you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Arturia says earnestly. “It’s completely understandable. Everything happened so fast for you, and court life can catch even the best of us off guard. It is a lot of pressure. But the worst part is, you have to make it look easy. You have to project this image of someone who’s somehow above it all so that people will respect you. No one can know. It’s incredibly isolating.”

For the first time, it hits Guinevere that Arturia—beautiful, graceful, perfect Arturia—is really just human. “But you’re not alone anymore,” she says, reaching over and placing her hand over Arturia’s. She turns around, and God, she’s always caught off guard by how green Arturia’s eyes are. 

“No, I’m not,” Arturia says, smiling. “And neither are you. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a great queen.”

She blushes, looking down so that she doesn’t need to make eye contact but not quite turning away. “Well, you’re King Arthur, so I think that’s worth a lot. I shall remember and cherish that always.” And then she fully turns away because she’s worried that she’s going to do something like kiss her, and that would completely ruin all the rapport that they built up today. Friends, she reminds herself. They’re going to be friends.

/

After that, interactions with Arturia get significantly less awkward, which is good because they’re now seeing a lot more of each other. Guinevere appreciates how Arturia always tries to include her in the affairs of the kingdom instead of treating her like some trophy queen. She’d been worried about that—that Arturia just wanted a queen to be another accessory in her disguise as a king—but she really should have known Arturia better. They rule together.

When they’re not working, Arturia invites her on rides or outings with the other knights of the round table. She was a bit nervous around them first, as she’d never been around such a large group of men, but she wins their respect, strangely enough, by losing to another horse race against Arturia. On her first outing with the other knights, Guinevere brought up her last race, claiming that the only reason Arturia had won was her superior stallion. Cue Arturia challenging her to another race, this time with their horses swapped, and Guinevere foolishly accepting. Arturia won. Guinevere hasn’t seen Olive run that fast in years; she swears it was some sort of witchcraft. 

During the day, they’re friendly and comfortable, just two friends who happen to be married. But during the night, they lie on opposite ends of the bed that they share, backs turned to each other, not touching, not interacting at all. In the morning, Guinevere always wakes up to an empty bed.

Until, about three weeks into their marriage, Guinevere wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of Arturia’s scream.

Immediately, Guinevere reaches for the dagger under her pillow with one hand and something to light a candle with the other. Her nursemaid taught her what to do in case of an attack when she had first started to grow breasts at the age of twelve, but she’s shaking and doesn’t think she’ll be effective against an intruder at all—

And then she lights the candle and realizes that thankfully there is no intruder, only Arturia, who’s sitting straight up, breathing heavily with beads of sweat on her forehead. A nightmare, Guinevere realizes, setting her dagger down. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, and then she feels silly because Arturia’s clearly not. She tries again. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.” She tentatively raises a hand to stroke Arturia’s hair—she hasn’t touched Arturia, not really, since the night they first met—but Arturia leans into her touch. 

“I’m okay,” Arturia finally says, her voice trembling. 

Guinevere shakes her head, wishing she could do more. “No, you’re not. But that’s okay. Do you want me to make some tea or something?”

“Don’t leave,” Arturia whispers, suddenly grabbing her hand.

“I won’t,” she says, soothingly rubbing her thumb across one of Arturia’s scars. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I have this recurring dream,” Arturia says hesitantly, “that I’m standing on a hill, and all around me, my knights are dead. Camelot is lost. Britain is in ruins. I have failed.”

“That’s not going to happen—”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Arturia interrupts. “It’s only a matter of time before I encounter a battle that I cannot win. When I was sixteen, you know, just weeks after I was crowned king, I led a real battle for the first time. There was so much death, so much bloodshed. And I told myself, that as a king, I need to be hardened to it, but in my dreams, I am so weak, and so afraid…”

Guinevere interrupts this time. “The fact that you aren’t hardened to bloodshed doesn’t prove that you’re weak or something; it only proves that you’re human! God, you were only sixteen when you were crowned; I’d forgotten about that. You were—you were only just a girl! No one could blame you if you’re feeling like this, but also, there’s no reason for you to feel like this at all because you’re just—you’re just amazing. You’re legendary, you know? The sword chose you for a reason. Sorry, I’m rambling…” She trails off, wondering if what she’s said has reached Arturia’s ears at all. She squeezes Arturia’s hand and adds, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a great king.”

And this is when Arturia finally smiles. “Well, you’re Queen Guinevere, so I think that’s worth a lot.” 

They’re so close. It’s just like the last time, when they were on their horses, staring into each other’s eyes. Guinevere immediately turns away and blurts out, “Do you want some tea now?”

“Okay.”

As soon as Arturia gives her consent, Guinevere scrambles out of bed. She desperately needs space. She needs to clear her head and stop thinking about how good it would feel to kiss Arturia. In the kitchen, she splashes some water onto her face to cool herself down. By the time she returns with the tea, her cheeks are back to their usual color, and her heart is back to its usual rate.

“Thanks,” says Arturia, accepting the cup Guinevere gives her. “Are you going to sit down?”

“Oh, oh yeah. I just wasn’t sure if you were okay with drinking tea in the bed,” she lies. She awkwardly sits down beside Arturia on the bed—at a respectable distance, of course, and watches as Arturia takes a sip of her tea. 

“Is the tea bad?” Guinevere asks, recognizing that nose wrinkle. She takes a sip of her own tea; it doesn’t taste that bad, does it?

“Not at all,” Arturia says, in a manner that would probably be very convincing to anybody else.

“You’re lying.”

Arturia sheepishly reaches over to set down the teacup on their bedside table. “Okay fine, it’s, ah, not quite to my tastes. How could you tell, anyway, that I didn’t like it?”

“Your nose. It crinkled for half a second, the way it when they served boar a few weeks ago,” she says without thinking, feeling like some sort of embarrassing creep the moment the words leave her mouth. At that dinner, all eyes had been on Sir Gawain, the knight who had slain the boar and proudly served it, but Guinevere had been looking at Arturia. 

Arturia, thankfully, doesn’t comment on that. She simply says, “Well, I’ll drink it anyway, of course. You made it for me. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me tonight.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Truly, thank you for tonight,” she says, placing her free hand over Guinevere’s. 

Guinevere tries her best to keep her heart rate under control and mumbles, “It’s nothing.”

Eventually, they finish up the tea, blow out the candle, and go back to sleep. As usual, they lie on opposite ends of the bed, backs turned to each other, not touching, not interacting at all.

Sometime in the middle of the night, it suddenly hits Guinevere that they hadn’t had boar a few weeks ago; that had been several weeks ago, before they’d even gotten married, before they were even friends. 

And then it suddenly hits her that even when she’d claimed to not be looking at Arturia, even when she’d genuinely thought she was distancing herself, she’d been looking at Arturia; she’d always, always been looking at Arturia. 

And then it suddenly hits her that this isn’t just infatuation or attraction, she’s in love with Arturia. She’s in love with the king that rules a kingdom with wisdom and strength, the girl that buckles under the weight of a kingdom and her own expectations, the knight that fights with valor and chivalry, the child that clings desperately to a moral code on a cruel battlefield. She loves Arturia racing down a hill, carefree and joyous, she loves her leading a meeting, serious and commanding, she loves her sipping tea at a table, proper and ladylike. 

Fuck.

/

Thankfully throughout the next few days, she doesn’t have to face Arturia too often because the castle is all abuzz with the arrival of a new knight. Rumors circulate that he’s the best knight in all of Camelot, and his skill surpasses that of even the king. The court celebrates the arrival of a reliable brother in arms, and lords and ladies alike admire his broad shoulders and dark eyes. His name is Lancelot. 

Just like everyone else, Arturia takes an instant liking to Lancelot. Guinevere grows accustomed to Lancelot’s constant presence, even on occasions that used to be just hers and Arturia’s. For instance, their rides around the palace. 

The thing about Lancelot is that he’s impossible to hate. He’s genuinely friendly and chivalrous, and he always has others’ wellbeing in mind. Guinevere begrudgingly finds herself enjoying that the conversations that they have on rides. Lancelot regales them both with funny stories of his early knighthood, offers thoughtful advice on the affairs of the kingdom, and listens in the most earnest and inviting manner.

So Guinevere doesn’t hate Lancelot, but she can’t help but to be jealous of how close he is to Arturia. Like all the other knights of the round table, he’s perfectly aware that Arturia’s a woman, and well, Guinevere couldn’t really blame him if he fell for her. And she couldn’t really blame Arturia if she fell for him. He’s the perfect man, the perfect hero.

Guinevere’s so lost in her thoughts as she heads upstairs to her room that she accidentally trips on one of the stone steps and stumbles backwards in panic, only to find herself rescued by two solid arms. She turns around, and of course, it’s Lancelot. 

“Thank you,” she says, reddening from embarrassment. 

“Not a problem, my lady,” he answers, with a subtle bow. “May I walk the rest of these steps by your side?”

Guinevere’s not really in the mood to turn him down, so she nods. They walk in silence, which is unusual because Lancelot is usually very conversational. They’ve nearly reached her room already, and Lancelot hasn’t said a single word. She glances over at the man beside her, only to find that he’s looking at her too. She raises an eyebrow in an inquisitive manner.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Lancelot finally says. “I’m afraid I was lost in thought for a moment there. If I may ask, would you like to go on a ride with me tomorrow after breakfast?”

“Of course,” she answers, not thinking anything of it. She goes on rides with Lancelot and Arturia all the time.

/

When she meets Lancelot in the stables the next day, she’s surprised to see that Arturia isn’t already there, saddled and teasing her about being late. “Where is the king?” she asks, looking around.

Lancelot rubs the back of his neck, and Guinevere wonders why he’s nervous for just a moment before it all hits her. “Was this supposed to be a ride with you only?” she asks. “I was under the impression that this was a group affair.”

“My apologies for misleading you—” Lancelot begins.

“Don’t apologize,” Guinevere interrupts. “It’s your fault and my fault both. However, I would like to make it clear that my heart is for my husband only.”

“I-I didn’t mean it like that, my lady!” Lancelot protests. “Of course I know your heart is only for your husband. Anything else would be highly improper, and I would never dishonor you like that. I only wished for us to go on a ride as companions.”

Guinevere’s still skeptical. She quickly runs through in her head every interaction she’s had with Lancelot so far. He always pays her extra attention, asking if she’s comfortable or needs anything, and he’s always looking at her. Still, that’s not enough to prove what Guinevere’s accusing him of. She needs the truth. “Come now, Lancelot. If you’re truly an honorable knight, you would be honest with your intentions.”

Lancelot turns away and flushes. “The truth is, I’m not a very honorable knight at all. I’m ashamed to be lusting after my king’s wife. I am so, so ashamed of my greatest sin! But, I mean, and I’m not encouraging you to do anything dishonorable, of course, but you cannot be satisfied with her. Arturia may have convinced most of Camelot and her enemies that she is a man, but she cannot be a man with you. It is just—a maiden like you deserves so much better. And of course I am not saying that I could be that better, of course not, but, ah I don’t know where I’m going with this. Well, I do know. I mean to ask, is your heart truly hers? Can it truly be?”

Guinevere can’t do anything but gape. She almost doesn’t believe him, but the way he’s stumbling over his words is proof in itself. And then the rest of Lancelot’s words sink in, and surprise gives way to anger. The nerve of that man! There’s so much that she could say to him, but instead she holds her tongue and snaps, “Goodbye, Lancelot.” With that, she marches away.

/

She returns to her room, mind abuzz with the events of the day, and finds Arturia sitting on the bed, flipping through a tome of history. “Did you have a nice ride?” Arturia asks without looking up.

“It ended up being cancelled,” Guinevere says simply, sitting beside Arturia on the bed—at a respectable distance away, of course. “Wait, you were aware of the ride?”

“I was worried, so I asked as to your whereabouts. A stable hand alerted me,” Arturia says, flipping another page of her book. “Why did you cancel the ride?”

“It was just a misunderstanding. Besides, wouldn’t it be highly improper for me to go riding alone, with a man who is not my husband?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Arturia says, to her surprise. She sets down the book and turns to face her. “So long as you and Lancelot are discreet enough to not cause a scandal on court, and you are honest with me, I wouldn’t get in the way of anything you choose to do. Guinevere, I understand that our marriage was never based on love, and there are ways that I can’t be enough for you. If it will make you happy—”

Oh no, no, no. This can’t be happening; she can’t be having this conversation again. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she asks, all the anger from before bubbling back up to the surface. 

“A woman who deserves something better—”

God, she’s almost using the exact same phrasing as Lancelot too. Is this what the entire court thinks of her and Arturia? “You! You’re an idiot!” she shouts, jumping out of the bed. She turns on her heel to face Arturia. Everything that she wanted to tell and didn’t tell Lancelot bursts out before she can control it. “You are the best thing that ever could have happened to me! There is no better. My heart is yours in every single way, regardless of whether you reciprocate, and I would never, ever betray you like that because I love you!” 

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. She’s ruined it. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfu—

And then she feels Arturia’s hand on her own. Arturia stands facing her, her brilliant green eyes staring into her own. “If I’m an idiot, then what are you?” she asks softly. “For not realizing that I’m in love with you too?”

Arturia takes the plunge, and she kisses her. 

And everything is right.

**Author's Note:**

> SO originally this was supposed to be an ultra angsty gay story, accurate to the actual Arthurian legend (which is angst like woah) but... #letlesbiansbehappy2k16  
> I’m going to be real with y’all. When I first started writing this story (like two months ago, haha somebody procrastinates a lot!!), I was in a place of lots of gay angst, which is why I wanted to write gay angst. But now I’m in a better place, maybe? Maybe not? (I’m dying Madoka.)  
> Thanks for reading!! Lots of love.


End file.
